The Break-Up Psychic by Emily Hemmer Read Free Book Online Page B

upright in this dress. It’s made for more of a lying down position,” she says, winking at me.
    As we head out of town and onto the freeway leading to the city, Luanne fills me in on the night’s planned festivities. “It’s a country western bar called Whiskey Tango. Thursday is lady’s night and you know what that means. Two-dollar margaritas!” she squeals.
    “Isn’t Whiskey Tango slang for white trash?” I ask, watching from the corner of my eye as Luanne applies another layer of lip gloss.
    “Yeah, I think so but that’s fine by me. Just means the men there’ll be right up my alley.” Seeing my leery expression, Luanne shakes her head. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Ellie, don’t worry, I won’t push you into having any fun tonight. I know you’ve got a big pity party planned for later. Just know this,” she says, pointing a red polished nail at me, “I threw out your last bag of Doritos.”
    “Lu!” I whine, pulling into the bar’s parking lot.
    Luanne cranes her neck to look out the driver’s side window. A slow smile spreads across her face. “Bikers,” she says, nodding her head at the promise of a dance floor full of leather-clad men.
    I eye the line of Harley Davidsons parked against the side of the dimly-lit building. I repress the urge to kick Luanne out of the truck and peel away from the parking lot. “I just don’t feel like being felt up by a bunch of drunken parolees,” I warn, leaving the safety of the truck behind.
    “Who said you’ve got to get with anybody? You’re here as my wingman. It’s been a good many weeks since I’ve been manhandled, and I’m looking to have some fun tonight.” Luanne shakes and shimmies, pulling down her dress for maximum cleavage presentation.
    Her face determined, she saunters up to the doorman and gives him her sexiest smile. He replies with a seedy grin and ushers her into the bar, foregoing the cover charge, then he looks at me. Maybe I should lay off the whipped cream. I give him a dirty look as he moves me through the door. I catch up to Luanne who’s bent over the bar, ordering our drinks. The place is loud and stifling. My shoes stick slightly to the floor with each step. I try not to think about why.
    Luanne hands me a drink and we turn from the counter to judge the crowd. There’re a good number of couples attempting to line dance on the sawdust covered dance floor, but mostly I see small groups of women, hooting and hollering over their discount margaritas. Luanne spots a small table near the front and we rush over to claim it. She hands me a shot of tequila and we clink glasses before knocking them back. The tequila burns my throat but the sensation makes me feel alive, and I anticipate having another.
    “Well,” Luanne yells, her hawk eyes searching the room for a quality dance partner, “what do you think? Any bad decisions out there tonight?”
    I squint, trying to make out the faces that look bleary through the smog of cigarette smoke. There isn’t a hatless man in the entire place. Cowboy hats are clearly the favorite choice but there’re a few trucker hats thrown into the mix. Most of the men are also sporting the trademark Texas belt buckle and pointy cowboy boots. I look over to Luanne and follow her line of sight, spotting a couple of cowboys sitting a few tables down from us. Luanne motions for them to join us, and I wave down a waitress and order two more shots. I’m going to need them.
    As the men approach our table a wave of Old Brute aftershave wafts over me, making me feel nauseous. Luanne places her hands under each breast and pushes up. The higher the cleavage, the closer to God, I guess.
    “Well, well, well, what have we got here?” says the bigger of the two. He’s a hulking cowboy wearing an ‘It’s Bigger in Texas’ belt-buckle and he’s got at least one gold tooth that I can see. Oh no, Luanne’s a goner.
    “Looks like we got us a couple of foxes,” says the second man. He’s squat with a